


Crossing Borders

by MONANIK



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ballet Dancer Lance (Voltron), Based on a Tumblr Post, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Child Abuse, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Dancer Lance (Voltron), Family Issues, Forbidden Love, Foster Care, Gay Keith (Voltron), Hurt Keith (Voltron), Hurt Lance (Voltron), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Japanese Shiro (Voltron), Keith (Voltron) Angst, Lance & Pidge | Katie Holt Friendship, Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance is new in town, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Orphan Keith (Voltron), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Shiro (Voltron), Rated For Violence, Sad Shiro (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Skateboarding, Skater Keith (Voltron), Slow Burn, Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), Supportive Pidge | Katie Holt, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, nothing actually happens dont worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-04-11 23:19:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19119751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MONANIK/pseuds/MONANIK
Summary: "He grinned stupidly at the dumb gesture for a moment, transfixed on the curious thing so close yet so far from him, before he was pulled back into a pond of perfume and silk, roughly and remorselessly.'What are you doing?!', Ezor hissed from between clenched teeth, 'You can’t! Not him! Not them,' she sneered and cast the group across a nasty glare. "Lance is new in town, strutting his way to his ballet studio, when he notices the cute skater across the street. He's enamored by the sweetness he spots in his craks, but quickly finds out just how unreachable that territory is.Because across the cemented border alive with speeding cars between the ballet studio and the skatepark lay land inaccessible to him, out of bounds entirely.Still, he aches for it. Aches and aches until he yields.Or the Ballerina!Lance and Skater!Keith AU.





	1. Right Outside your Window

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU by peachy-lil-girl on tumblr that I got the permission to write something based off.  
> Thank you!
> 
> Anyways, I know absolutely jack-shit about ballet and ballet terms so if I screw up royally please do correct me. I tried to do my research but I probably messed up anyway. 
> 
> Anyhow, enjoy!

It was a beauty that came from behind closed curtains and between metallic bars. Always the presumptions; a vicious cycle of stereotypes coming from people who knew nothing of the pain he endures on a daily, the splintering ache he suffers through in silence on stage. The months he spends in utter agony. _“A girl’s sport”,_ they say, _“Must be gay—that boy”,_ they whisper. Still, he ploughs through. From day to day, year to year, second to second—he ploughs through it all. Because by the end of it, behind those heavy curtains, he’s content. Exuberant. There is nothing quite as satisfying as a successful performance; one which he danced through on bloodied toes and weakened ankles.

 

Ballet had always been Lance’s favorite thing in the world. After his family, perhaps, but his favorite _thing,_ nonetheless. Because it was just that; _his thing._ Something belonging to him. Something which made him unique in a group of a hundred. Something which sparked interest in his chest and sent a flow of happy chemicals coursing through his head like tidal waves lapping against the cliffs of shore back home in Cuba. There was nothing quite like it, he liked to argue.

 

And so, there he was. The car stopped a way down the block where his new studio stood high and proud, glistening like a sore eye among the grey, vandalized buildings on this end of town. It was a pristine, baby-blue building. A few floors high at most with a rather sleek, spotless, minimalistic exterior. Above the entrance hung a heavy yellow sign that simply read _Altea Studios_ in fancy cursive. It hurt to look at under the blistering sun, and yet it made every nerve in Lance’s body alight with fervor. His mother was speaking to him from the passenger seat, her hair a mess much like the nest of a bird—all tangled, brown locks sticking up every which way. Her big blue eyes were intently locked on the road ahead as her hands moved frantically in front of the steering wheel, desperately drawing and counting it out for Lance to understand. He agreed to be home in good time, promised to stay safe and— _“Yes, mama. Thank you. I’ll try to make friends, yes, that’s the idea,”._

He took a deep breath and felt the stretch of his lungs and limbs as he exited the car, a happy bounce in his steps. He waved his mother goodbye, watched her drive off to where they’d come from, and only then turned back towards the high-end construction a way ahead.

 

As he slowly got to approaching the building, he threw a look at the surrounding environment and noticed an old, worn skate-park right across the street from the studio. It was a ragged thing; worn and tattered in a way only childish stubbornness and consistent wheels-on-anything could accomplish. Graffiti covered every single clean surface from top to bottom. Some left him wondering who or what you’d have to be to succeed in reaching that, much less _graffitiing it._ Tags, love-notes, artworks and doodles were all crammed tightly together on the many walls and ramps, currently occupied by a group of individuals all doing crazy tricks. Some flailed and stumbled, others landed flawlessly every time.

 

He stopped his lazy trek towards the studio the second he laid his eyes on him. Coming down from a trick perfectly capable of rendering Lance immobile, he swept sweaty, black hair off his forehead and tugged twice at the ponytail behind to tighten it. From where Lance stood, he could only barely make out the sharp edges of his face and shoulders, the pinch between thick brows, and the stern line of his mouth—contorted into a scowl. _Must have been a bad jump,_ he recognized in the skater across from him; something only the dedicated could recognize in those comparable to them in their passion. Lance could tell the guy wasn’t there simply for fun’s sake. He saw the spark, the intensity in his every move. He saw himself straining long legs, stretching, reaching, pulling himself taut; bleeding for perfection in his moves onstage. So, he recognized it.

 

At that thought, as though he’d heard him, the skater looked up and his eyes met Lance’s. All he could see from where he stood was a pair of big, curious eyes, widening a fraction. Lance tried for a smile, hoping to God that it seemed as easy and gentle as he’d intended it to, and then watched the guy from across the street look around himself a few times—as if he were uncertain that Lance’s smile had, in fact, been directed at him—before meeting his gaze again. He smiled back, albeit a little wobbly and uncertain, before turning and walking back to the herd of rowdy teenagers.

 

Lance’s thoughts returned to the present, and he remembered in alarm that he’d been on his way to something very important: his first class in a new studio.

 

 

The other girls, only five of them total, turned out nicer than he’d thought. There was Acxa with her flowing adagio. There was Shay with her inexplainable strength. There was Ezor with her energetic, bouncy ballon. And there was Allura with her silken hair and effortless elegance. Her elasticity like a warm rubber band left to soften in the sun a bright summer day.

 

And then, lastly, there was Katie—or _Pidge._ The shortest dancer in their newly birthed group, but also the boldest. It was bonding at first sight—unadulterated friendship. They spent every minute they could—were allowed to—talking and getting to know each other. Some people are like that; you just click. There is no awkward fumbling, no desperate search for words, no one person constantly sweating to fill silences. Sometimes, those rare times, such things just flow as if it had always meant to be. As if they’d known each other in another life, another reality.

 

Lance knew the moment he’d stepped into the studio that he’d love every second there. Their coach—a twiggy woman in her mid-thirties with wispy hair and stern brown eyes—turned out warmer than he’d initially thought. Brutal, but warm and welcoming, something Lance deeply appreciates in his coaches; a sense of humanity hiding among blocks of finely cut professionalism. The perfect balance of sweet and salty.

 

They spend a good portion of the lesson messing around and getting to know one another through silly challenges and games. By the end of it all, when the girls slowly began to trickle out one by one, he was sufficiently worn to the bone. Despite the discomfort, he couldn’t find it in himself to leave, buzzing with rooted energy that had had all summer to fester and grow. An hour before closing time their coach left him and Pidge to clean up and stretch in their own time. Only after they’d promised to bear the responsibility of and if anything were to break and swearing dutifully that they would made sure to turn off all lights before leaving.

 

He continued dancing, too hyper to slow down, when Pidge approached him, bag slung over her shoulder and sneakers on her feet, “Aren’t you done already?”, she asked, her eyes slanted in emphatic discomfort at Lance’s masochistic need to further tear apart muscles and tendons, “Well, no,” he drawled between breaths, “Got too much pent-up energy, and I really like this place,” he said, leg out in an all-too-painful arabesque after all those brutal hours of half-dancing half-fooling around. Still, he didn’t let go of the bar—didn’t want to leave.

 

She shrugged her free shoulder and started wiping invisible dust off her glasses with the hem of her green T-shirt, “Suit yourself,” she mumbled to the floor, “But don’t overwork yourself, new boy.”, and with those parting words she turned and walked out, leaving Lance to his pitiful self.

 

There was nothing for him to go home to except yelling and yelling and fighting and more yelling. He was tired, so tired of it. If he closed his eyes for a moment he was transported there, to the cold marble floor of their kitchen, with his father’s burly frame hovering above him, _“Why is he like this? Why are you like this?”,_ he heard him shout, an echo in his head.

 

His right ankle strained uncomfortably from the consistent torture and he focused all his attention on that. On the familiar burn in his muscles and lungs, on the stretch of his worn tendons and creaky joints. On the pull of his shoulders as he stretched his long, tan arms further and further, and on the twitch of his stomach as he fought the Earth to keep him steady.

 

In his mindless hunt for a comfort he’d long since forgotten, he lost track of time, and as the sun set below the skyscrapers beyond the full windows behind him, he didn’t even spare it so much as a measle glance. This was home, had always been home. The warm hue of his skin as the golden sun outside reflected on it and around the spotless room, all crammed with mirrors and glossy surfaces, was the one time and place he’d always called home. Long before the fighting got bad. Long before his parents knew of him.

 

From the door to his left came a voice, vibrating through the thick silence that had befallen the room, as shrill and deafening as a fire alarm in a desolate church.

 

“The studio closed two hours ago, time to leave boy,” said the blue-clad woman at the door. She carried with her the air of nonchalant power only bosses and owners wore as easily as a second skin, “What’s your name, boy?”, she asked.

 

“My name’s Lance, miss, and I’m with Balmera Ballet,” he answered, lowering and relaxing for once. He winced at the dull ache that spread with the action—his mind now finally back to the reality in which he really did overwork himself, “I’m sorry for staying so late, but would it be OK to remain a while longer?”.

 

He brought forward his best kicked-puppy eyes and pleaded with her to let him stay a little longer. After a moment’s convincing on his part, she finally yielded and told him he had to leave at ten tops.

 

He left at 11.

 

 

-

 

 

There was something so bizarre about a boy made of mostly leg walking out and around in nothing but shorts and a tank-top in the dead of night. Keith knew he was new. In a town as small as theirs, everyone knew everyone, and the skaters across the preppy ballerinas certainly kept track of everything and everyone who walked in and out of the studio.

 

He couldn’t stand the itching worry under his skin, so he approached him.

 

 

-

 

 

Of all things, Lance had not expected to be met face to face with the skater boy across the street first thing after leaving the air-conditioned glossiness of the studio. Despite the warm late-summer air, the wind blew coldly against his sweat-slick skin. It made him shiver.

 

But what made him shiver more was the intensity with which those eyes caught his. This close, directly under the streetlight and studio-glow, what had first appeared as black sparkled dimly in violet shades so mesmerizing he forgot to speak when spoken to.

 

“Huh…?”, he stumbled, jaw slack.

 

The skater sighed and rubbed his neck, his board firmly set underneath his arm, “You’re new in town, right?”, he asked.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Lance choked, “That obvious, huh?”

 

The other shrugged, indifferent, “Well, yeah, but that’s a given,” he said, “I just thought it might do you good to warn you about walking around like that alone this time of night. Especially around these parts.”, he warmed, a nervous twitch in his left brow.

 

Lance chuckled lowly, “Why? Will I get attacked?”, he slurred and stepped closer, right into his space, “Who would want to ravish a pretty thing like me? Do you, perhaps, know them?”, he whispered, eyes traveling the fine lines of his lips and nose, all the way up to a pair of beautiful, wide eyes. A heavenly flush quickly spread through pale cheeks and he dropped his gaze, the twitch in his brow only getting more intense until—finally—those bushy things succumbed into a full-on frown.

 

“No, I—”, he started, but sighed instead of finishing, “Nevermind,” he mumbled, and tore himself away from Lance, turned, and walked off.

 

_Huh?_

 

He stood there, a stiff board in the moving wind, with his hand still outstretched, and stared at the spot in which he’d stood.

 

_I didn’t even get your name._

…

 

 

 

 _And you weaken your love_  
And you hold it above your head  
Success is a song of the heart

_Not a song of your bed_

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

When Lance is dropped off the next day by a very bristling mother, stressed to the roots, he’s surprised to see the girls right outside—a block or so from the studio—talking loudly with each other.

 

“Lance!”, they erupt in various degrees of delight and tackle him with cheery greetings the second the door closes. He throws a glance at his mother’s contorted expression before turning back to the group.

 

“Shall we?”, he asks, feigning normality and gesticulating exaggeratedly like a fine gentleman from the early twenties. They giggle and take the lead, keeping their pace deliberately slow to prolong their time of chatter and informality. Ezor eyed him from where she’d fallen back with him, “Why’d she drop you off down here and not in front of the studio?”, came the dreaded question. Lance looked around frantically, desperately, for an escape. Pretending he didn’t hear her. When he found his escape on the other side of the road, skateboard in arm and a black snapback on his head, he waved happily, making sure to stretch high and spread his smile to flaunt a set of bright teeth. The skater boy from yesterday fumbled in nervousness for a moment and looked around quickly before hastily raising his palm in a quick salute.

 

He grinned stupidly at the dumb gesture for a moment, transfixed on the curious thing so close yet so far from him, before he was pulled back into a pond of perfume and silk, roughly and remorselessly.

 

“What are you doing?!”, Ezor hissed from between clenched teeth, “You can’t! Not him! Not _them,”_ she sneered and cast the group across a nasty glare.

 

“Those people are insufferable and terrible,” Allura agreed, her hair as white as the blinding center of the sun. It shone nicely in daylight, but all Lance could do in that moment was frown at her, “What? Why?”, he asked.

 

“You just can’t! Skaters are off bounds. Kick it or hit it!”, Ezor barked, face red with anger, “Those losers are not worthy of your attention. C’mon! Let’s go.”, she said and grabbed him firmly by the arm, dragging insistently before he was reluctantly pulled along and into the air-condition of the pristine studio.

 

Outside he spotted the skater, still standing by one of the ramps, looking like a void in the bright of day—all dressed in black despite the heat.

 

He sighed, “Ok,” he said to no one, “Got it.”

 

 

 


	2. All that which Tells Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An insight into Keith's situation, and a very fated encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I only read through this twice before posting so forgive me if it's a mess. 
> 
> Tags will change a little from now on. 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING for mentions of death, abuse and taruma.
> 
> Edit: yall im wild lmao first i write he’s at a table and then i talk about how he’s looking for one can a bitch make up their mind
> 
> Edit 2: I keep jumping between tenses I’m so sorry I’ll fix it when my brain is back online again.

Another night was spent out.

 

This particular night was windy and cold, and the sky above gloomy; dull and dark and pregnant with icy rain. He could feel it drizzling already, moistening his skin and frizzing his entangled hair. It shagged glumly down his neck and stuck unpleasantly to his forehead and jaw. A stray strand somehow found its way into his mouth and he pulled it out begrudgingly, eyeing the thing like it insulted his mother.

 

It was a lonely night. The streets lay vacant and stiff, void of any life. Not for the first time does he curse the insignificance of their town that lies smack down in the middle of ass crack nowhere. A lone dog barks in the night, and a single drunk wobbles his way down the empty street. Keith lays nestled between two containers in the back alley of the pizza-place his dad used to take him to—back when he was alive. Their visits to the crappy little pizzeria used to be the highlights of his week, always a steady reoccurrence in his and his dad’s hectic life. If he closes his eyes, he can still smell the rusty stools and tables, the grime and grease. Can still feel the bumps on the steel surfaces of crusted, leftover meals. Can still taste the fatty, soggy pizzas that were for some reason the best thing he’d ever eaten.

 

But that was then. He hasn’t been inside for years. The place even shut down for a while a few years ago during a downtown breakout between two criminal gangs. Owner of the place earned himself quite a few robberies and more vandalism and violence than one could count to. A small place like that was bound to fall victim to the fluid mobs. Eventually, once the situation settled, the place found its ground again and has since been open for business. Keith still hasn’t gone.

 

Instead he comes here, to the back, whenever George sees it fit to test his survival skills. Sometimes he wanders for days without a signal from their end, other times he’s found within a few blocks of his house by the cops and then escorted back. It’s always the same story, the typical act of, _“Oh, no! We don’t know what’s gotten into him! He just ran off. Teenagers, you know, with their temper-tantrums!”._

 

He didn’t care anymore. All he wanted to do was skate and maybe talk to the cute boy across the street, the one with the long legs and pretty eyes. The one that seemed interested in him for a moment. And the one that had just as quickly been pulled away from him. He didn’t even get to learn his name. _Stupid. Why’d you run for?_

 

The clouds finally gave way to heavy downpour, and he pulled his hood up over his head, shielding his ears from the strong wind. Shivers wracked havoc through his body, and the fabric of his clothes quickly soaked in the shower from above. His toes, stiff and cold, hurt.

 

Maybe he’d get frostbite and die from infection. Maybe then they wouldn’t escort him back.

 

He closed his eyes and thought back to that night so many years ago, when he last visited Papa Smyth’s with dad. His last night of childhood.

 

 

They were sitting in their regular booth, two pizzas between them glistening with grease and sauce. He was laughing about something his dad had said, juice coming out of his nose and a mouthful of hot pizza partially clogging his airways, making it hard to breathe between snorts. His dad had just sat there, watched him in amusement, commented on his mess and laughed right along. When he could breathe again, and the place had slowly begun to empty, he’d asked about mom. About where she were. Who she were. All he got in return was stiff silence. He didn’t understand it at the time, but he understood it now. His father didn’t know. Couldn’t know. And, more importantly, didn’t want to think about it when he was saying goodbye. Subconsciously, perhaps, but regardless something told Keith he knew all along; knew there would be one last attack on an unknowing building only a few blocks from where they lived, knew the fire would be all-consuming this time around, knew he wouldn’t come out of it alive. Because at the end of the day there was always someone inside buildings. Always someone to save. It was something his dad always used to say; _“Every building has a story, and every story is told by a human being,”._ He’d argued, back then, the way a child would, that, _“No way! Maybe animals can talk, too, but we just can’t understand them? How do you know they’re not telling stories?”,_ and his father had only nodded and agreed and promised that, _“Yes, you’re right. Animals are worth saving, too,”._

 

When he’d seen the smoke, he hadn’t thought twice about rushing out of bed and over to where a mob of people, officers and firetrucks had all gathered. People were rushing, screaming, shouting, talking above each other, shoving and wailing. He remembers the pounding in his head, in his veins. The pressure on his chest as he watched ambulance workers roll in stretcher after stretcher with covered-up people, all wrapped and zipped up in plastic bags.

 

He vaguely recalls the face of the police officer who pulled him aside and told him that his father had died a hero. He’d ran back into the house to save on last person—a little boy around his age, clutching a dying kitten to his chest.

 

 

Shook out of his half-dream-like state, he jumped and quickly pulled out his pocketknife to hold against the throat of the stranger firmly grabbing his shoulder. The man flinched, yelped and backed away. He landed in a puddle, right on his ass, and groaned in pain. Keith blinked water out of his eyes to clear his vision and noted a worn, oil-stained red apron tied around the ginger’s waist. His mustache—thick and animated—twitched with the displeased expression.

 

“You lad sure seem capable of packing a good punch! You certainly frightened me!”, he chuckled and stood back up. Keith stared and stare as he descended higher and higher until he was a looming presence above him, blocking the neon light from the displays above.

 

The mustached man bent down, hand still rubbing his ass tentatively, and picked back up the umbrella he’d been holding, “What’s a youth like you doing here this late? Have you no home to return to, lad?”, he asked.

 

Keith grumbled his reply for a moment. He didn’t seem like a threat, all soft and welcoming and energetic despite the hour. Alert and jumpy, he seemed much like the new owner he’d glimpsed running around the place. The nametag on his chest read _Coran_ in scribbly, child-like handwriting.

 

“I’m sorry for being in the way,” Keith rasped and made to get up on cold-stiffened muscles, “I just needed a place with good shelter to sleep through the night. Sorry, I’ll leave immediately.”, he finished and turned, sighing as he slowly made his way past the towering man and towards the back exit.

 

“Just wait a second,” Coran said and grabbed Keith’s arm. He hadn’t expected it and flinched in response, body readying itself for an attack that never came. He looked up hesitantly through droopy eyes and tear-blurred lashes and found in the stranger’s face something he’d grown all too familiar with lately. _Pity._

 

“Are you hungry, lad?”, he asked, “We have some leftover pizza that we’d rather not throw away. Best to eat it while it’s still edible.”

 

Keith wanted to scoff and scorn and turn on his heel. He wanted to flip him the bird or kick him in the chin for looking at him like he’s something fragile, something in need of saving with stupid, free, disgusting pizza.

 

But his stomach disagreed with the sentiment. Loudly.

 

Coran smiled and the lines in his face crinkled softly, “What’s you name, lad?”, he asked.

 

“Keith,” he said.

 

Coran took him inside, gave him a ragged old towel and told him to find a table for himself. A surge of nostalgia flushed through him when he entered the warm, tick air inside. They’d renovated the place since he’d last been there. A new owner meant new improvements. There were now pictures and collectibles hanging on the walls, and the metallic tables had all been replaced with thick, wooden ones. On every table lay a tattered tablecloth, red-checkered, and in the middle lone candles flickered gently. There were a few people still eating at their respective tables, most of them lonely students looking for late-night munchie food.

 

He stood in the opening to the kitchen and stared at his old spot. The booth stood empty next to the large window. It was dark outside. Keith could see his own, miserable reflection in the black, glossy surface. He’d pity him, too.

 

“Well then?”, a chipper voice startled him out of his thought loop, “Are you just gonna stand there or are you gonna sit down?”.

 

He was met face-to-face with a big, burly guy holding dirty dishes in thick arms. He was wearing one of the red aprons as well, except he also had a ridiculous chef’s hat on his head. A pair of big oven mittens hung from his hip, tied to the string holding the apron in place.

 

The chef stared at him, eye as wide and bright as the smile stretched across his puffy cheeks, “My buddy will be with you in a minute. He was rushing earlier and dropped a tray of plates so now he’s cleaning up things in the back,” he said and nodded in the direction of the kitchen, “I tell you, can’t trust him with anything fragile. Guy just ends up breaking everything he holds,” the chef muttered as he squeezed his way between rows of dishes and utensils in the small counter area, “I bet it’s those big arms!”, he finished and shoved his way through the swaying doors, disappearing out of sight but not out of earshot as he yelled back to Keith, “It’s nice to meet you Keith!”.

 

Blinking a few times, he snapped himself out of his stupor and dragged himself across the floor and to the old booth. The cushions were still soft, though nowhere near as torn, now replaced with fresh leather ones; yellow and obnoxious. He sighed and rubbed his hands on his soaked jeans, wincing at the uncomfortable sensation of wet skin on wet jean before giving up and squeezing water out of his hair instead. The measly hood hadn’t helped for shit. He was sufficiently soaked to the bone, hair hanging in black strings in front of his eyes and leaving puddles of rainwater where it dripped steadily behind his back. He shivered and breathed into his cupped palms, searching for warmth, when there was suddenly a blanket being thrown over his trembling shoulders. He flinched and mentally scolded himself for letting people catch him off guard left and right but quickly melted into the welcome embrace of soft, fresh blanket. He looked up.

 

Above him stood a young waiter, dressed in all black except for the red cloth around his hips. In the small pockets of it, Keith noted a small block, a few pencils and a wallet to store cash. The waiter was tall and broad, all bulky muscles and sharp edges, but his eyes were soft and welcoming. There was no pity in his eyes, he dully thought—only remorse.

 

“You must be the stray Coran picket up?”, the waiter asked, his nametag only white blank space.

 

Keith observed him for a while, made him squirm in the enveloping silence, before putting two and two together, “You’re knew?”, he droned, “The chef told me you dropped some plates and made a mess. Said you’re hella clumsy.”

 

The waiter spluttered and reddened before scrunching his brows in a half-hearted scowl, directed at the swinging doors beyond the counter to his left, “Damn you, Hunk,” he muttered, then turned back to Keith, sighing, “My balance is terrible when it comes to these things, but I’m certainly not new,” he explained. Keith didn’t give him the leeway of a verbal response, but rather pointed lamely at the tag on his chest.

 

“Oh…!”, he exclaimed, seemingly confused himself, before reddening further and reaching up to shakily take out the card and push it in again—the right way this time. He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. The tag on his chest read _Shiro,_ confirming Keith’s theory of his origin. The thick scar across his nose almost blended in with the blush on high cheeks, making the shock-white of his hair stand out all the more.

 

“I guess I really am a mess.”, he confessed to an uninterested Keith who only huffed in response. Shiro stubbornly took a seat across from him and hastily pulled out a wrinkled T-shirt from God-knows-where. “Here,” he said and handed Keith the crumpled thing, black and too big for him, “I didn’t think you were so skinny, otherwise I would have found you one of my old shirts.”.  

 

Keith bristled at the comment, “I’m not skinny! You’re just a meat-head.”, he fired and scowled at the object before reluctantly reaching down and pulling his drenched hoodie over his head. It clung to his skin and hair and hurt to rip off. His teeth clattered at the cold gust that enveloped him and he hurried to cover his bruised torso before Shiro could see too much and understand too little. The shirt went on easily, falling down his shoulders like a stretched-out pajama, and he sighed at the feeling of soft, dry cloth on his chilled limbs.

 

He caught Shiro staring at him in silence, but the waiter only cleared his throat and looked down at his hands when caught in the act. Keith waited for the inevitable question, letting the silence grow and fester between them while Shiro constructed a sentence that wouldn’t—according to him, probably—send Keith into a fit.

 

“Did someone do tha—”

 

“Yeah. My foster parents beat me regularly.”

 

The flinch he earned in response made a delighted smile stretch across his face. Shiro stared in shock. Keith could almost see the gears turning, could see him trying his goddamn hardest to figure out if Keith was real or not and if he was, what he should do about it. He spared him the trouble.

 

“But there’s nothing that can be done about it so forget it,” he said and fiddled with the ring of rubber on his finger. Shiro was quiet for a moment before he finally spoke, “You can’t expect me not to try to help you, Keith,” he said, “No one should have to live like that. I’m sure if we report them to social—”

 

“And then what, _Shiro?_ ”, he growled, “Do you know what they’ll do? They’ll send me to the next. And the next. And the next. And every time there’ll be a nice _Shiro_ somewhere who’ll clumsily send me further and further into worse and worse hell. I’m fine, thank you very much. Adults are untrustworthy. All of them.”, he finished.

 

Shiro sat in silence and observed him for a while. Keith could feel the searing weight of his stare on his scarred cheek as he turned to stubbornly stare out the window. He was only met with his own, sad reflection.

 

“I have scars, too, you know?”, Shiro finally spoke up, breaking the heavy silence, “And I’m only 22.”, he whispered. Keith turned to look at him, frowning still, and as he did Shiro took of his right glove and pulled up the sleeve of his dress-shirt to expose a glimmering, metallic expanse crawling into the shirt and further up past his elbow. It was an intricate thing, high-end and realistic but not quite real. Not quite a real arm.

 

Keith stared at it calmly, indifferently, “How’d you lose your arm?”, he threw out into the space between them. Shiro didn’t seem offended. Quite the contrary; he seemed relieved as he spoke, “Well, there was an accident when I was very young. Our apartment burned down to the ground. I got stuck below a fallen bookshelf and a piece of the roof loosened and fell on my arm. They had to amputate,” he said, voice carrying in it something distant and so distinctly painful it made Keith squirm in his seat, “I’m lucky me and Luck survived.”, he finished.

 

Keith felt something heavy clog his throat.

 

“Woah, Keith? You OK buddy?”

 

Hot tears prickled behind his eyelids. He blinked and blinked, willing them away. There was no way he would cry. Not here. Not in front of Shiro.

 

“Lucky…” he started, whispered, “Is he your cat?”, he heard himself ask.

 

Shiro observed him carefully, his brows pinched in worry and his hand out between them as if he’d started reaching for him but stopped halfway. He searched Keith’s face, eyes switching from one point to the next, “Yes,” he whispered and watched as Keith’s composure crumbled.

 

For the first time that night he could feel the lead in his bones, the metal in his muscles. Shouldn’t metal serve as protection? Shouldn’t it be his armor, like it’s always been? But in that moment, with Shiro alive and in front of him and so obviously a living, breathing, human—he felt nothing but its restrictions on his movements. The chains keeping him rooted in place.

 

He realized that there was no point in cursing his father’s grave, in damning the day he decided to leave him for someone else’s life, because looking at Shiro’s innocent expression of unfiltered worry he knew he would to the same. If giving his life for a traumatized little boy meant said boy would grow up to brush the dust off someone else, he’d do it without second thought.

 

He sniffled and rubbed his red, cold nose with the back of his hand. Refusing to meet Shiro’s gaze. He was so tired of those eyes.

 

“Why’d you name him Lucky?”, he asked instead.

 

Shiro smiled weakly, softly, “Because he was the last kitten in our family’s culling to have survived,” Shiro explained, something rough glazing over the harmonious warmth of his voice, “I was clutching him closely to my chest when one of the firefighters found me. I don’t know what happened to him, but I’m pretty sure he got burnt really badly. I can still remember how gentle and reassuring he was. He saved me in more ways than one.”

 

Keith stared at a dirty spot on the table as he listened to Shiro drone on and one. The waiter understood, he thought, he was one of the few people to ever understand.

 

They were eventually interrupted by the cheery chef, who introduced himself as Hunk, and Keith was handed his free pizza.

 

It tasted just as greasy and slobby as he remembered, and he sobbed around every delightful bite.


	3. A Crack in your Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance learns about the origin of the cursed feud, and earns himself a number one late evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not very happy with how this chapter turned out. Oh well.
> 
> Maybe I'll go back and edit it in the future but for now it is what it is!
> 
> Enjoy!

The next few weeks were spent tiptoeing around each other.

Lance would catch him glancing his way, and in turn would get stuck admiring the lines of his shoulders and hips as they twisted and turned mid-trick. He was mesmerizing to watch; all snappy, predatory movements full of power and speed. Twists and flips and God-knows-what.

But their fates had been sealed, and as much as Lance adored the girls from the studio, he couldn’t help but despise them for pushing him along with the herd. He wanted so desperately to reach out to him, to ask his name and tell him his, to get to know him and hold his hand and giggle over stupidities with him. Alas, here he sat; bent over Shay’s delicate hands. Her gentle, hazel curls felt down past her shoulders and tickled his cheeks and forehead, and the puff of her minty breath was a welcome soothe as he diligently worked on refining his artwork. A coating of pink, glittery polish elongated elegant fingers and made him swoon over her prettiness. Dainty and delicate, much like the tall girl herself.

Around him sat the others, all equally as preoccupied with each other. Well, all except Pidge, who was lazily flipping through one of the glossy fashion magazines, her head propped up on her hand and her feet kicking in the air behind her.

There was something he wanted to ask them, but he didn’t really know how to start. Should he just throw it out there and hope for the best? Perhaps that was his best and most honest shot. He finished putting on a glossy coating over the pink glitter of Shay’s nails before rubbing his wet hands on bare legs, sighing, and finally looking up. From Acxa’s phone came an upbeat, pop-y melody on low volume to fill the silence in the room. They were all contently painting, completing the circle, not minding the calm atmosphere, occasionally commenting on something or sharing silly memories. Lance cleared his throat as quietly as he could before breaking the silence.

“Can I ask you guys something…?”, he addressed the room as a whole. Five heads lifted on que to throw him an attentive look. He had their attention. Now what?

He cleared his throat again for good measure, a little awkwardly. This could all go terribly wrong. They could totally reject him; throw him under the bus. He swallowed thickly, “Uh, so, If I— Say, you were to like someone… and people around you told you you weren’t allowed to…” he started, “…what would you do? Cause I kind-of like this… _guy…_ and everyone tells me I can’t and… yeah…” he trailed off, fiddling with the old coating of polish on his hands, scratching at it painfully with the nails of his other hand to get off what remained. It came off in small, dark-blue flakes and fell down on soft, shaved legs.

“Isn’t it obvious?”, Acxa, the quiet one among them, asked. Her short hair bobbed as she tilted her head in question, brows deeply furrowed. “If you like him, isn’t that all the reason you need to be with him?”

“Yeah!”, Shay piped up, “You should do what makes you happy!”

Pidge scoffed from her sprawled out position smack in the middle of the carpet, “More like _do_ who makes him happy.”, she mumbled to a flustered Lance. The other’s ignored the comment, all choosing to add on to the general sentiment with their own variations of _follow your heart and gut._

Ezor, however, was awfully quiet—her long, blonde ponytail sprawled out against the edge of the bed she sat leaning against, newly-polished hands wrapped around thin legs. She hummed and thought loudly, staring at the ceiling, “But if it’s a skater you’ll get exiled. Remember that,” she whispered. The room fell silent for a moment, before the others agreed once more.

“Yeah…” Allura said, “Best not to get mixed up with the wrong crowd, Sharpshooter. For your own good.”

Lance couldn’t believe his luck. First, he’s exiled from his old school’s swim-team because he’s gay and the other guys felt harassed, and now he’ll be exiled for… liking a skater? It was absurd on so many levels. So much so, that he felt compelled to ask for clarification. No, deemed he rightfully _deserved_ one.

“What’s up with that feud you guys got between you, anyways?”, he asked, voice a littler snappier than he’d intended. The nails on his left hand were almost entirely clean.

“Well,” Pidge finally spoke up, “I think I could help you with that,” she said and adjusted her round, golden glasses. The flare from the light above shielded her eyes for a second as she got up in a sitting position, legs intertwined in front of her, “Back in the days before you moved here there was this incident where one of the skaters’ board went flying after a particularly bad jump and knocked a ballerina unconscious. Turns out she was important to the upcoming competition, and since she had to get medical attention and got bedridden, they lost and had to work from scratch. It sort of set ablaze this whole fiasco, because the ballerinas all collectively one night decided to put a shit ton of wax on their ramps, which obviously resulted in very ugly bruising on the skaters end but an insanely hilarious scene for the ballerinas—I mean _c’mon!”_

Someone had lowered the volume on the phone between them. Pidge’s hands were still lazily flipping through the glossy magazine, though her eyes were not really reading anything written in them—only skimming the ridiculous, overedited pictures.

“Anyway. It started this this whole thing were the skaters are our rivals and we’re born on this Earth to make their lives as miserable as they constantly make ours’. No bigger point in it, really,” she finished, shrugging and brushing her fingers to untangle the mop of honey-colored hair on her head. It stood up every which way.

Ezor scoffed and disagreed loudly with Pidge, claiming that the skaters didn’t stop the craziness with the skateboard-accident. She spoke animatedly and aggressively, loudly, about the time they egged the entire studio and got away with it, and the time they stole all their regular shoes from the locker-room, so they had to walk home barefoot on injured feet.

“Monsters! Those bastards. I tell you.”, she huffed in clear defiance. Something told Lance there was more to Ezor’s hatred for Skaters, but he felt drained and too tired to pry, so he decided to drop it.

 

Ten minutes later they were discussing the upcoming competition, all previous topics forgotten. Well, forgotten by everyone but Lance. He tried his best to seem indifferent, unaffected, but the scrutiny of Pidge’s calculating gaze didn’t leave his skin for the rest of the night.

 

 

-

 

 

For months they continue tiptoeing around each other. On good days he managed a wave or a smile. On bad days all he got was a glimpse or two of the black-clad boy.

He finds his stare drawn out beyond the window during every break. The girls of Altea Ballet had all grown close to Lance’s heart. He couldn’t imagine ever disappointing them, ever losing the family he’d so carefully built and cherished for months.

Still, he longed and longed.

 

 

-

 

 

 

_From time to time I pinch myself_   
_Because I think my boy mistakes me for somebody else_   
_And every time he takes my hand_   
_All the wonders that remain become a simple fact_

 

 

-

 

 

One late evening, dancing in the setting sunlight of the studio, he caught the curious stare of the skater boy. He was sat on his board, with his arms over his knees, watching him dance in unmasked fondness.

Lance couldn’t control it anymore.

 

 

-

 

 

He’d only intended to watch him for a while as he danced with such emotion even Keith found himself drawn to the elegancy of the long-legged boy in the sparkly studio. His long, caramel limbs were stretched far and strong, flexible and smooth in the fresh moonlight.

He’d only intended to watch him for a moment, not to actually interact.

Alas, before he could even process what was going on, his gaze caught the other’s and as swiftly as a lightning bolt the Hispanic boy rushed out of the studio doors, across the street, and right up close to Keith. He was panting, moist with workout sweat, and his hair stood up in a terrible post-practice look. Still, Keith thought him to be the most captivating thing he’d ever seen.

The ballerina breathed in heavily, hands on his knees, before looking up and straight through Keith’s walls, “Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi…”

“What’s your name?”

“Huh?”

“You name, stupid.”

“My name?”

“Yes! I’ll die if I don’t get your name soon! Please! I can’t keep calling you The Mulleted Skater in my head for all eternity!”

“The _what now?”_ he frowned.

The ballerina sighed before taking a seat next to Keith on the pavement, dressed in nothing but those thin shorts and a tight tanktop.

“You’re killing me, mullet,” he whispered and leaned back on his hands.

“Won’t you get booted from the Primadonnas if you talk to me?” he asked the beautiful apparition sitting next to him, _talking_ to him _._

He sighed and smirked, finally looking at him again, “Well, yeah, but only if I get caught,” he confessed and shuffled closer, “It’s Lance, by the way. Slowpoke.” He teased and poked Keith on his scar. He didn’t flinch this time.

 _Lance._ It suited him. It rolled off his tongue like gentle waves, or the gust of a summer breeze, and he liked it.

“I’m Keith,” he breathed, entirely too captivated to function properly, “And I’m also glad I can stop calling you The Twiggy Ballerina in _my_ head,” he smirked devilishly and watched as Lance’s expression contorted into a half-assed frown.

“What! How _dare_ you. My body is to kill for!” he exclaimed and stretched a pair of long, beautiful legs in demonstration. To further emphasize his point, and possibly send Keith into cardiac arrest, he lifted a perfectly toned leg high above his head and held it there with his right arm for a second, nose in the air, “See?” he grumbled.

Keith swallowed thickly, his mouth suddenly too dry to form coherent words, so he dropped down behind his board instead and sprawled out on the pavement, arms above his head in a lazy stretch. From his peripheral he caught Lance’s gaze travel from the line of his boxers to his navel. _Serves you right,_ he thought smugly—basking in the warm tint to the boy’s cheek, before closing his eyes and breathing in the fresh evening air.

 

Crickets chirped on and on from the forest beyond the park as they spoke through the night, Keith sprawled out on the pavement next to a beautiful boy he never thought he’d learn the name of. Halfway through their talk a cold wind blew past and Lance shivered despite his efforts to seem cool about it. Keith offered Lance his hoodie, relishing in the glorious blush that spread over tan cheeks. Nonetheless, Lance accepted it with a shy smile and a promise to clean it and bring it back tomorrow.

He looked adorable in Keith’s hoodie. It drooped and fell past his hips and wrists, clearly too big for the dainty dancer. It was the most heartwarming sight Keith had ever been blessed with, and it was now his to keep in his memory forever.

They exchanged numbers and promised to meet again tomorrow night, right there underneath the star-filled expanse above.

He wanted so much more to remember.

 


	4. Your Messages in Times of Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING FOR:  
> homophobia/slurs/non-con ELEMENTS/violence
> 
> Nothing actually happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again: TRIGGER WARNING BELOW. Keith's first paragraphs contains th above mentioned. If you're sensitive to such things I suggest skipping that part.
> 
> I also suggest people actually read my tags.  
> Rating will change to M for the violence.

He was ecstatic—completely out of himself with joy.

It was a particularly refreshing summer-night. Cold winds wrapped and twisted around his naked legs, and although it would elicits shivers from him, he didn’t hate it. Not at all. There’s something utterly spectacular about nights like those. In particular that night, because when Lance got home, he wasn’t freezing anymore. Wrapped in soft cotton, where the welcoming scent of rain and firewood lingered, he felt absolutely at home.

 

How was he supposed to ever return it to him? It fit his body like an embrace—all soft and warm and so worn in, so _Keith._

(Yeah. Keith. Now he had a name to characterize all those feelings with.)

 

The _Rolling Stones_ print on the front, red and white, was faded and chipped—barely remaining intact and discernable. And yet it made Lance’s stomach jump in delight, for it meant that the hoodie was of some importance to Keith. One does not simply keep a hoodie that worn for as long as he must have. Or maybe he did. Maybe Lance wasn’t very special, and Keith had simply been courteous.

Maybe. But he liked to think otherwise. For one night he could afford himself some leeway, he could afford to indulge in what’s forbidden so strictly.

 

His grin stretched further across freshly moisturized skin, widening beyond its limits at the memory of a very fresh number on his phone. So, still with Keith’s hoodie falling over his shoulders and warming in from the outside-in, he opened the new contact and let his heart consume his thoughts for just one night.

Just one night it would be OK. One night.

 

-

 

 

 

**iMessage**

**Thursday 9:05PM**

**Lance:** _u have no idea how glad I am you walked up to me that night_

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

_And though the fear within my heart still drives me over the edge,_

  
_It is you that I want to hold me in bed._

  
_And should the sun shine tomorrow I'll be holding my head,_

  
_Cause I'll be hoping for raindrops instead._

-

 

 

Shouting from inside could be heard way before their house could actually be seen. He wasn’t surprised no one had reacted to it, if the decaying structures so boldly labeled “homes” around the block were anything to go by. People on this end of town weren’t particularly attentive to shouting, or shooting.

 

So, he wasn’t surprised that no one had reacted to the open window and his items flying out and onto the pavement one by one. Shattering, breaking, cracking against the hard cement.

 

A sense of uncontrollable dread washed over him the moment their eyes met. His cold, dead, foggy brown against Keith’s swirling violets. _Or were they grey? Some people said they were gray. He didn’t see it. He read once that any variation of blue eyes is just eyes without pigment, and that the light was what determined the color—_

He was cut off mid thought when a sharp, ragged fist connected to his jaw and went flying to his hair, pulling. “Ye stupid, son of a bitch! Ye dumb little filly!” George’s breath was foul against his cheek and ear, his voice a croaky, blaring alarm thrashing against the confides of his skull. “Thin’ ye can jus’ run off all night with those fuckin’ queers of yours, huh?”, he slurred, “Better ‘nock sum sense into ye already.”

 

His fingers dug painfully into his arm. Those long, brittle, nasty nails dug into tender flesh, leaving red streaks in their wake. Keith’s legs were shaking, his bones rattling—trying to flee his body—but the iron grip on his arm was keeping him there, halting behind the furious drunkard.

 

“Milley!” he shouted into the void darkness of the house, books and clothes lay everywhere, “Milley ye cunt! Where are ye?”

 

The painting on the corridor wall of a sappy little family, poorly scribbled by the shaky grip of a toddler, hung loosely; threatening to fall and break. Among the messy scribbling, in the bottom right corner, was the sloppy signature of a certain _Anna._ He bit his lip and looked away.

 

Room after room they passed, until Milley appeared at the opening to his bedroom. Her frilly, blonde hair a tangled mess of a bun and her protruding eyes an unnerving sight when scrutinizing, sneering from above. If her husband looked furious, she seemed nothing short of bursting with rage. “What’s this, young man?” she shouted, her lips a thin white line and her bony fingers clenching tightly his sketchbook. It was open on a page of Lance, all smiley and sweet and probably portrayed more sensually than what was socially acceptable. Primary reason for why he’d hid it. Not well enough, though, it appeared.

 

He swallowed the heavy lump in his throat, tried in vain to answer their obvious accusation, but no noise came out. Only stuttering, hacking breaths of misery and embarrassment. He prayed the Earth would open below his feet and swallow him whole. Felt the drag of rusty nails from the inside of his skin leave burning tracks as they went up and down in time with his quickening pulse.

 

“I—I was just practicin—”

 

“You were drawin’ one of ye queers, that’s what ye were doin’! You bastard stray!”. Keith shied away from his mouth; cringed at the volume at which he yelled right into his ears. That wouldn’t leave him for days; hissing and ringing in his right ear. Drops of spit came flying out of George’s mouth as he yelled on. Keith cringed again.

 

He hated this. Hated how vulnerable he became, how openly he allowed them to push him around. He absolutely hated himself. Wished and wished with all his might that he were someone else, anyone. Anyone but who he was. Anywhere but there.

 

“The things we do for you, Keith!” Milley barked on, “And yet this is the thanks we get? This— _abomination!”_ she gestured wildly and snappily towards the drawing, crumbling it in the process in her iron grip. Uncaring that she was smudging the edges, erasing his beauty.

But neither he nor George were listening to her any longer. George was shouting still, only he’d switched tactics. His empty threats became real danger as he pushed him down onto their shared, disgusting mattress. It reeked of sweat and old people and alcohol and Lord knows what else. Panic flooded his system at once. This couldn’t be happening. He wouldn’t—George wouldn’t _go that far._ Would he?

 

And his question was answered with a slap, and the shove of his head into the mattress below. He was partially hanging off the bed, hands held behind his back. He could hear the telltale sound of a zipper unzipping, of a belt unlatching. Then, as his blood ran cold, he felt his jeans loosen at his waist.

 

“Ye wan’ this so much, huh?” he heard him grunt, the stench of his sweat a choking hazard as he leaned his heavy, sweaty body on him, “I ain’t got no choice but t’ give it t’ ye, then.”

 

He was panicking now. Thrashing and screaming, begging for help—for mercy. Finally out of his paralysis.

 

A strangled, garbled mess of _“Please, no!”_ and _“Don’t!”_ fell from cracked, bloodies lips. There was no returning for him, he was past that—now aimlessly drifting through the dark, cold waters. Transported back to that night so many years ago, among the scorching flames. Their pity, their hollow apologies, their half-assed condolences. His empty bed, empty _Best Dad_ mug, empty couch where he used to spend his afternoons. He was transported to the pristine hallways of the hospital, to the stiff blocks of the _Child Protective Services._ Then, soft caramel skin among the chaos. A pair of baby-blue eyes blinking at the stars…

 

And then, as if pulled back by a grasping hand clawing through the skin on his back, he was laying there again. In their martial bed. Surrounded by odors so foul he felt the remainder of his lunch thrash and sway against the insides of his stomach.

 

He tried to move his lips, to say something, but found instead his muscles stiff with shock and his skin moist with the streak of tears. His eyes burned. They felt puffy and painful. One was throbbing violently. But his underwear was still on, and the hands clasping his back let go.

 

“Get out,” he growled.

 

Keith didn’t waste any time. As fast as his dignity and strength could carry him, he sprinted out the door, out the room, out the house, and out onto the streets on which he belonged.

 

He was shaking with terror tremors by the time he saw the welcoming light of _Smythe’s._ It’s orange and red shifting glow of the crappy sign above set the raging pulse in his ears. The weight of the situation fell on his shoulders, and he crumbled inwards underneath its weight—laden with the pure shock.

 

On shaky legs he made his way to the booth. He laid his head against the cold, dark glass and watched the wobbly lines of the world outside through it.

 

That’s when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

**iMessage**

**Thursday 9:05PM**

**Lance:** _u have no idea how glad I am you walked up to me that night_

 

 **Keith:** I think I might have an idea.

**. . .**

**9:08PM**

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance:** _nuh-uh_

 **Lance:** _not letting u have this, I’m the one most glad I met u, fair companion_

**Keith:** You’re ridiculous.

 

 **Lance:** _and yet u still talked to me for hours back @ the park_ _😉_

**Keith is typing…**

**Keith:** Only because you’re sort of cute.

 

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance is typing…**

**. . .**

**9:12PM**

**Keith is typing…**

**Keith:** Sorry. Was that too forward?

 **Keith:** I just genuinely think you’re precious.

 

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance:** _ASFIGRFKOR_

 **Lance:** _U CANYT JUDST SAY THAGT!!_

 

 **Keith:** The fuck?

 **Keith:** Did you type that out with your fucking eyeballs or what? Horrendous.

 

 **Lance:** _oh EXCUSE ME mr perfect, but I’m having the crisis of a lifetime_

**Keith is typing…**

**. . .**

**Keith is typing…**

**Keith:** Wait, why? Because of what I wrote?

 

 **Lance:** _duhhhhh_

**Keith:** Don’t get it.

 

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance:** _of course u don’t, why do I get my hopes up_

 

 **Keith:** Over what now exactly?

 

 **Lance:** _Nothing. Just that I’ve like been dying to talk to u for the past weeks because ure so,,,!!!_

 

 **Keith:** So?

 

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance:** _ure just so much, too much, it makes me crazy_

 **Lance:** _God, this is so stupid what am I doing_

 **Lance:** _I feel like I owe u this, for the hoodie. thx, by the way : <)_

 **Lance:** _but the truth is I’ve been watching you for a while now_

 **Lance:** _OMG! Not in the stalker way in the—oh ure across the street from me on a daily—way, I would never stalk u figners crossed :’’I_

 **Lance:** _Uh…_

 **Lance:** _and u juist really fascinate me and Ive wanted to talk to u for so lobng now and I’m glad I finally did. thats all_

**Keith is typing…**

**Keith is typing…**

**. . .**

**Keith is typing…**

**Keith:** Christ.

 

 **Lance:** _THATS ALL I GET?? A “CHRIST”???_

 **Lance:** _u foul foul vermin_

 **Lance:** _how DARE u_

**Keith:** Why didn’t you?

 

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance:** _Why didn’t I what??_

**Keith:** Why didn’t you talk to me if you wanted to so badly?

 

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance:** _because im scared, im scared they wont let me into the club again_

 **Lance:** _ballet is my whole world, keith_

 **Lance:** _I know it sounds selfish but its been an escape for me for as long as I can remember_

**Lance is typing…**

**Keith:** I know.

 **Keith:** You don’t need to justify yourself to me. I get it. Trust me.

 

 **Lance:** _I saw it in your skating, you know_

 **Lance:** _on my first day here_

**Keith:** Wow. For how long have you been crushing on me?

 

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance:** _AJDISHGR URE A JERK KETIH A JERK Y WOULD U THINK THAT WHO WOULD EVER,, ME?? THAT MULLET?? PFFT NEVER >:7_

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance:** _OK maybe a little but DON’T GET FULL OF YOURSELF_

**Keith:** I like you too, Lance.

 **Keith:** Despite your catastrophic spelling.

 **Keith:** We’ll work on it.

 

 **Lance:** _thrs nthing wrong w my spelleling_

 **Lance:** _splelling*_

 **Lance:** _spe_

 **Lance:** _spellilng*_

**Keith:** I’m astonished.

 

 **Lance:** _oh shut ur trap!_

 

**. . .**

**10:04PM**

**Lance:** _and thats y dany should have been on the throne_

**Keith:** Fantastic. I can’t believe I’ve spent ten minutes reading all that with my own two eyes. You’re out of control.

 

 **Lance:** _*gasp*_

 **Lance:** _URE the one out of control thinking bran was a good choise!!_

**Keith:** Are you kidding me? It was brilliant. What’s a bigger ‘fuck you!’ than that? It’s brilliant.

 

 **Lance:** _ure a masoshist_

**Keith:** Masochist*.  

**Keith is typing…**

**Keith:** And I’m more of a sadist 😉

 

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance:** _ASDFGH STOP BULLYING ME!!_

**Keith:** But that’s my job as a sadist.

 

 **Lance:** _I hate you._

**Keith:** Woah. I think that was the first and only grammatically correct sentence of the night? Who knew all it took to reboot your last braincells was to trigger you into a fit over GOT.

 

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance:** _only bcz I hate u so much!!_

**Lance is typing…**

**Lance is typing…**

 

-

 

 

 

_Darling I was searching for the light within_

  
_When you came on in, placed my world in a spin._

  
_I was aching when you came around._

  
_Funny how things work, how my world was upside down._

 

 

 

-

 

 

“I charge extra for spending the night here.”

 

He was snapped out of the trance he was in, eyes bleary and dry from having stared at the bright phone screen for so long. Christ, had so much time already passed? He’d got himself stuck in an endless conversation with Lance about _Game of Thrones,_ crocks and his family dog (whom Keith got a handful of pictures of).

 

He rubbed his tired, puffy eyes and winced as pain shot through his skull. Right. The bruises. “Jesus, Keith! What happened to you!?” Shiro was immediately at his side, his big hand cradling the side of Keith’s face gently yet firmly enough to turn him his way and examine the blossoming bruise.

 

“Is it bad?” he croaked, words a smooshed mess between the strong fingers clenching his mouth partially shut.

 

Shiro shook his head, but not in answer—his worried, heavily furrowed brows were indication enough. No, he was shaking his head in disapproval, but he didn’t prod. “You’re coming with me,” he mumbled, face falling, “We need to patch you up.”

 

“Just no hospitals.” Keith said, and they were off. The cold wind outside a gentle kiss to his beaten face.

 

Two lone message notifications slid onto the brightness of his phone screen.

 

 

-

 

 

**10:15PM**

**Lance:** _I don’t actually hate u, mullet_

 **Lance:** _quite the opposite, I think_

 


	5. The Breath of Our City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pidge is met face to face with a feral thing, and Lance finally learns to let go of the things keeping him still when all he wants to do it dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually proud of this chapter, even if it's short.   
> I'm trying to update more frequently instead. 
> 
> We're crawling closer and closer to the end, lads and dads.

On one hand he was rather ratty looking, she thought, but on the other he seemed so feral it almost made him harmless. Like a scared animal. Nothing more.

 

“I need your help, Matt.” Shiro pleaded. His hands shaking where they were gripping the injured boy on their porch. Pidge recognized that face.

 

It was the same guy Lance had waved to that one time, weeks ago. He’d gotten chastised for it good, but despite it she couldn’t help but feel they overreacted. He seemed harmless enough, if one just looked past the low growling and crazed look. She remembered that day, and how she’d considered them absurd for continuing a feud as pointless as theirs. Still, she hadn’t said anything. It wasn’t her bravest moment, or her most dignified, but she’d learned to blend in with the crowd. It meant less drama. Less fighting. Less of everything potentially bothersome. She wasn’t about to risk that for a guy she’d only just met, she told herself.

 

“What the hell happened?” came her brother’s agitated question, all while herding the boy inside. Holding onto him like he was made of glass—of course.

 

“He won’t tell me.” Shiro said, head hung low and eyes cast elsewhere. It flew right over Matt’s head, but Pidge saw through his terrible lie. Shiro had always been a terrible liar. “You try and ask him.”

 

Matt pushed him down onto the sofa and yelled for Pidge to retrieve the first aid kit from upstairs. When she returned with it the boy’s glare was plastered on her. Calculating.

 

Her brother turned back to the bruised kid; kit open in his lap. “What’s your name, stray?” he asked in a joking manner, hands fiddling with a pack of sterilized cotton balls and a bottle of sanitizer.

 

“Don’t fucking call me that,” the wild boy hissed, “It’s Keith. Just Keith.”

 

He squirmed underneath Keith’s glare, clearly embarrassed. Shiro shuffled on his feet nervously behind the couch, eyes on everything but the duo; drowned in deep thought. “Alright, Keith, I’m sorry,” Matt said, drawing back when Keith hissed from the contact with the cotton ball on his cut brow, “Didn’t mean to strike a nerve.” He said.

 

“You think that’s gonna need stitches?” Shiro spoke up, teeth biting into the tender flesh of his cuticles, “It looks pretty bad.

 

“Nah,” her brother replied, brushing it off with a shrug and a rather harsh press to Keith’s broken lip. The pad was already red with blood. “But he’ll definitely have a badass scar later to match the one on his cheek.” He tried for a wink, a way of lightning the mood, but something in Keith’s expression paled. Pidge distantly, vaguely, recognized that from somewhere. A long time ago, when she was still just a baby, and a very traumatized young boy stumbled into their lives. Hair as white as snow, an arm missing, clutching the one thing he had left; a very feral looking black cat. Pidge inwardly snickered at the ironic repeat of history, still partially hidden behind the doorway.

 

“Alright, there we go!” Matt clapped his hands as if to rid them of invisible dust, “All patched up and ready to cuddle a pack of peas for the rest of the night—unless you won’t be needing that eye tomorrow.” he said and packed up the kit. Shiro was at Keith’s side the second Matt went up to retrieve the replacement-ice.

 

“You OK, buddy?” he asked. Keith’s frown didn’t waver. “As OK as I can be.” He answered drily.

 

That’s when a familiar warmth brushed against Pidge’s legs before skidding off to where Shiro and Keith sat. Kuro hopped up on the sofa, right between the two, as if he’d known Keith all his life. He didn’t seem the least frightened by him, strangely. Pidge had to personally actually try to form a bond with the stubborn thing through bribing, mostly. And a lot of involuntary (on her part) chin-rubs. Still he didn’t warm to her as easily as he did to Keith. _Bastard._

 

And now there he was, shoving his head into Keith’s hands and stomach in desperate search for attention the boy was too stiff to give. His eyes seemed glossy all of a sudden, and Pidge distantly concluded that there was more to this sad boy than she’d originally thought. He wasn’t feral for no reason, she finally understood.

 

“Hey there, buddy,” he whispered and rubbed Kuro’s head gently before moving to his chin, “Aren’t you the most adorable little thing…” But his voice gave and cracked at the end, and his lips set into a firm line. Shiro smiled sympathetically, hand out to brush Keith’s hair out of his eyes so tenderly it made even Pidge’s heart-void ache.

 

Matt returned with the peas, and Pidge to her room.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

_But what about the pictures we didn't take?_

  
_What about the moments that we forget?_

  
_What about the memories that we've lost?_

  
_That only leave you full of feelings and regret_

_Over the people we neglected_

  
_And the time we took for granted_

  
_When all you can do is close your eyes_

 

_And hope that the memories develop in the darkness_

 

-

 

 

 

It was foolish of him, he knew. There was no point in him getting his hopes up; they’d never be more than this anyway. Whatever _this_ was.

 

Because their nightly talks had become a routine, and Lance was learning more and more about the black-clad skater and his crazy ways. He learned that Keith was an absolute daredevil, and that he once broke a guy’s nose for pissing on a statue of a dog, and that he’s really lactose intolerant but just doesn’t care. He knows this because they shared a milkshake on their second night together; huddled close, face to face. He would never forget that, for every time he closes his eyes Keith’s are right there staring back at him. One does not simply forget eyes such as his. Never in a million years.

 

So, what were they? Had they confessed to each other that one time while texting? Or was it simple, friendly banter? He wasn’t sure anymore. Nothing was sure anymore. But they were together, underneath the star-kissed sky, enjoying the summer breeze and the roaring sounds of the breathing city, lounging in the soft music from Lance’s phone.

 

Lance laid on his stomach, scribbling on the bottom of Keith’s board. “You’re so weird, you know that?” he said, but he couldn’t wash the smile from off his lips. He was glad it was dark outside.

 

_“Broken by the love, this hurt divides itself._   
_Decided that kissing you is bad for my health.”_

 

Keith chuckled from his place in front of him, stargazing on his back with his hands playing mindlessly with the buttons on his shirt. “Weird, huh? Never heard that one before.” He joked.

 

“It’s true,” he laughed, “Who wears all black in the middle of summer below the scorching sun? While skating, none the less!” he said. Lance was smiling now, unashamedly. Unknown to Keith, he was scribbling a heart next to one of the wheels with an arrow shooting through it and the letters _K_ and _L_ in it, divided only by a tiny plus sign. He grinned, “You’re gonna be the death of me, Keith _Noname_.” He said.

 

_“Oh, don't you see it now?_   
_I'm staying for a little while.”_

 

He listened to him sigh gently, “Still calling me that?”

 

“Not my fault you don’t wanna tell me your last name.”

 

“But I don’t like it,” he whined, “It brings with it bad memories.”

 

A comforting silence fell upon them. Lance had already dropped the topic when Keith spoke up again. “I’ll tell you my last name if you promise you’ll give me a new one someday…” he whispered to the stars.

 

_“And to my surprise, you did say_   
_this is just you and I babe.”_

 

Lance held his breath, his pulse going a mile a minute. “Are you… flirting with me?” he asked.

 

“Shouldn’t I return the favor?” Keith countered.

 

Lance stared at him, upside down on the pavement, with his hair spread out around his head like a black halo. The pricked sky above reflected in his eyes, and Lance clenched his fist around the blue marker. “Since when are you so smooth, mullet?” he breathed and leaned over.

 

He lingered there for a moment, let the bustling city in the distance around them soothe his haywire nerves. Let them both breathe in the other, breathe in the warmth of the summer air and the comfort of the moment they shared. Lance gingerly lifted a hand and brushed over Keith’s still black eye softly, so softly. Even with only one bruised eye, and a busted lip, he still looked as handsome as ever to Lance.

 

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, lips ghosting over his—hovering—for a moment. Waiting. But Keith didn’t speak, didn’t so much as breathe, so Lance finally let go. Felt the unwinding of the knot in his stomach, the rush of his blood in his veins, the rustling feeling of Keith’s broken lip firmly against his. Keith was first to tilt his head, to deepen the kiss and make it something more—something Lance couldn’t run away from.

 

Finally, after such a long while that Lance’s elbows had formed small indents in the skin from leaning on the asphalt below, did they part. Still a breath away.

 

_“Oh, don't you see it now?_   
_I'm staying for a little while.”_

“It’s Kogane.” Keith told him and pulled him down to press their lips together one more time, right there below the twinkling sky.

 

He was sure it was winking at them.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

For the next few weeks, Lance couldn’t tear himself away from his phone, and the lingering, longing looks thrown out the window of their studio only kept growing more frequent.

 

As his coach, Therese had to be in tune with her dancing stars. Even Lance. And as a woman in love she knew what those dreamy sighs meant.

 

Knew better than anyone what they implied.

 

 


	6. To Be Chained and Shackled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it, lads and dads.  
> This is the end. 
> 
> I hope the story was to yall's liking because I sure as hell am proud of it--believe it or not! 
> 
> The song which inspired this fic was:  
> Yellow Days -- A Little While
> 
> [Bold text is spoken Spanish!]

He passed by it at least once a week, when his mother was too preoccupied to drive him to the studio. It was a beautiful, crimson color; vibrant and a little sparkly. On one such trip he stopped and went inside, tried it on, and with the help of the friendly clerk got a much-needed discount on it.

He couldn’t wait to show Keith.

And he did. On their second month of their peculiar nightly routine he dashed out of the studio, barefoot, with his bag slung over his shoulder and his right hand holding the golden little tube proudly between forefinger and thumb.

“Keith!” he shouted, “Keith, you’ll love this!” he said once he was close enough.

“Lipstick?” Keith asked, brows furrowed and… _was that a blush?_

“It’s your color!” he clarified to the stupefied boy now fiddling with his board, eyes stuck on the swirl of the stick as it rose from its golden confide. “Beautiful, huh?” he said with a wink before he brought out his phone and with the light and view of his front camera put on the romantic shade on a pair of soft, delicate lips.

“How do I look?” he asked, arms out in an expectant _ta-daa!_

He watched him stutter and fumble for a while, eyes glued to the pretty sparkle on Lance’s lips, and then—before he could say another word—those captivating eyes closed, and Keith leaned in until they were a mere breath apart.

“Illegal.” He said and pressed their lips together.

 

Keith went home with a share of Lance’s lipstick on his neck and jaw that night.

Not that he was complaining.

 

 

-

 

 

Lance’s parents, on the other hand, did.

He had to watch his father as he threw it in the trash.

 

It was either the lipstick or the ballet, and Lance had always chosen ballet.

Always would.

 

 

 

-

 

 

It was well past two in the morning, but Pidge couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t seem to find a lull in the hectic mess that was her brain.

Lance had been acting all dopey and lovestruck, like the ultimate fool, and it was eating away at her conscience. So, what if he liked boys? She didn’t care. Still, it bothered here that she never made any moves to stop the others from doing so. Maybe because she knew nothing could be done. Still, it was eating at her.

So, she did the only logical thing; crept into Shiro’s and Matt’s room.

 

They were nestled close together, Shiro with is head in the crock of Matt’s neck. His prosthetic was off, and he’d put on Matt’s stupid round glasses. They didn’t notice her at once, so she gave herself the right to observe for just a moment. She found in them what she saw Lance longing for.

Shiro was playing with the end of Matt’s braid, twirling the tip around course fingers, and Matt—in turn—carded delicate hands through Shiro’s short hair. All the way down to his nape and back up. Occasionally his hand traveled over Shiro’s shoulder, and sometimes Shiro’s lips graced the sensitive skin of Matt’s neck.

They were fools and she loved them.

When Shiro came into their life, like a broken boy in need of saving, they accepted him with open arms. Formally, Shiro was under his grandmother’s custody, but the poor woman was too old and tired to do more than walk short distances, so the thought of raising a rowdy, traumatized child seemed not only impossible but immoral. She sent him away the second Pidge’s father gave her the OK.

And then, just like that, him and Matt became one. Always tied to one another. Never leaving the other’s side. That’s how it had always been and always would be.

 

She sighed and bit back the smile still lingering on her lips before creaking the door open a fraction and peering inside. “Incoming. Please put away all penises and cover up all entrances,” she taunted, one hand over her eyes.

Shiro reprimanded her, as usual, for her language. Matt laughed heartily by his side, all warm and gooey from the prolonged affection. Like a warmth-flushed drunkard hanging over the edge of a bar.

“What brings you, dear sister?” he asked and patted the space between them gently. Pidge ignored him and sat down in front of them on top of the cover. She wasn’t planning on staying long.

She sighed, “I have something to ask you guys,” she said, not daring to look up from her hands now twisting around each other in her lap. “I may have been… a bad friend…” she started, “But I still feel iffy about the main issue at hand…”

“Just spit it, Pidgeon.” Matt said.

Breathing in she braced herself and told them everything; about the stupid feud and about Lance and his stupid crush and about the stupid, stupid, feral boy invading her peace and quiet with his intensity. How she felt unsure about his presence in Lance’s life, and how she felt unsure about the others’ reactions to Lance’s interest in the boy.

Once silence had fallen around them, and the two realized that she’d spoken her part, Shiro smiled at her. “It sounds to me like you’re just worried this will be a repeat of 6th grade,” he said. Pidge dropped her gaze.

“Yeah,” her brother agreed, “I think you’re scared to open up to the possibility of it all being OK because you don’t wanna live with the aftereffects of stepping out of the comfort zone of norm again.”

She knew what that meant. Her life hadn’t always handed her the luckiest cards, and she often found herself playing poker with a handful of blank fillers. In her 6th school year her person was dealt the hardest blow when her class rejected her for her ‘strange’ clothes and ‘weird’ behavior. Now, she couldn’t care less, but back then it had been her whole world and she’d watched it crumble.

Perhaps they were right. Perhaps part of that was still haunting her in her decisions. How frustrating that she hadn’t seen it coming.

“Maybe you’re right,” she whispered to no one in particular, “Maybe I am just being a coward.”

“No, Pidge,” Shiro startled, “That’s not what we meant—”

“No, it’s true,” she steeled on, “I am a fucking coward. Thank you.” And she meant it. “But one more question,” she said, “Why was Keith here that night?”

Something told her Shiro wouldn’t tell her out of honor towards the feral stray he’d unintentionally adopted. Still, she held his gaze and willed on. “Please, Shiro,” she pleaded, “I just need to know.”

He sighed and blew away a strand of hair from his line of sight. “He was beaten up badly by his foster father. That’s all I know.” He said.

 

She nodded and thanked him, and after a few tosses and turns finally fell asleep. Back in her own bed, in her own mind.

 _No more running_ , she promised herself.

 

 

 

-

 

 

Lance’s world stood at a standstill.

In his mother’s murderous grasp was his phone, screen bright and animated with incoming texts from a boy named _Keith_ whose name drowned in hearts and kisses. A boy who was typing and typing, spilling his heart out to who he assumed was Lance, while the source of his affection stood a foot away. Paralyzed into silence. Shaking from the marrow of his bones to the tips of manicured fingers.

He stared at his nails and instantly felt the rise of that disgusting, heavy feeling as it clawed its way up his throat. _Regret._

He shouldn’t have gotten them done. Now they’d only have more to use against him. His mother, or father, is sure to notice it.

He started scraping at them, trying to remove the stubborn coral-blue coating.

 

 **“Lance,”** his mother pressed, lips a firm dash, the lines in her face as dusty as the untouched photographs of them all hanging down the hall, **“Explain yourself.”**

 **“I have nothing to explain,”** he tried defending himself, but his father wouldn’t have it.

 **“I fucking told you it would turn him into a faggot! I told you so!”** he yelled to his mother, gesticulating wildly, talking as if Lance weren’t there. He flinched at the rise in his father’s already booming voice. **“No wonder he turned out a fairy when he dresses like one on a daily! Dancin’ around on his tippy toes like some dainty little princess! He bought fucking lipstick, woman! My son did!”** his father’s voice shook at that.

He suppressed the urge to vomit. It was burning down his throat. It made his eyes sting, and he felt the telltale throbbing in his head of an oncoming panic attack.

 **“He can do better! Right, Lance? Of course you can!”** his mother tried reasoning, **“Here,”** she said and gestured for Lance to take his phone. He didn’t move.

 **“Here! Take the phone and text that boy to leave you alone! I bet it was just a silly joke between you two and he got the wrong idea, right?”** Her desperation made him nauseous.

Lance couldn’t find it in himself to hate them. They didn’t know better. They didn’t understand.

 **“No!”** his father barked on and ripped the phone from his mother’s hand, **“No more.”** He said and turned towards Lance.

His face was blown read with fury, and the fierce fire of it burned brightly behind the ignorance in his eyes. Those bushy, once welcoming brows were drawn tightly together into the firmest scowl Lance had ever seen on his father. **“You’re never gonna write or talk to this boy ever again, do you hear me? Either you break this shit off with him or you’ll never see the fucking walls of that studio ever again. Am I making myself clear, Lance?**

But Lance wasn’t hearing it. He was there, listening, but he was not there _hearing._ He was not with them. He was away, in the studio, burning through every calorie of his day and sweating the anxieties of the night away under the bristling moon.

He felt it, the temptation, before he fully registered what he was doing.

Well out on the street, barefoot, he ran and ran until his legs gave out in front of the bright, baby-blue studio. He tried the handle and found to his relief that the place was still open. Not having it in him to question it he instead stepped inside the dance-studio and began his stretching routine—all while reminding himself to take deep breaths.

It was OK. He wasn’t there anymore. They wouldn’t know to find him there.

Then, he danced. Danced and danced until his ankles screamed and his thighs wailed. Danced and danced until the moon had sunk to the horizon and the dawn of day began trickling forth between the cracks in the clouds. The clock on the wall showed 3:46AM by the time Lance was done with his routine.

Sudden slow-clapping from the arch of the door vibrated through every limb of his body.

There stood his coach, Therese, in all her delicate glory. As thin as a leaf in the wind and as dainty as a princess, yet as rough and commanding as a soldier. Her shoulders high and straight and her feet tucked close and neat gave her the mightiness of immaculate poise.

“Bravo!” she said and grinned wider than he’d ever seen her smile, “What a raw talent you are, McClain,” she praised.

Upon noting the tear tracks dried on his cheeks she stopped for a moment, let the expression on her face smoothen out into something softer, motherly, before continuing towards the panic-stricken boy. His hands and legs shook violently in the aftermath, and his lower lip quivered terribly in the warm air of the studio.

“My,” she started, and reached out to stroke back a stubborn hair sticking up from the side of his head, “What keeps you so rooted, dear?” she asked, “I’ve now seen you in full blossom, and I don’t understand where those wings disappear to whenever the sun rises from below the horizon.”

Her hand was gentle and dainty, stroking his freckled skin so softly and adoringly he felt inclined to tilt into the touch. He whimpered softly—trying in vain to stifle his sobs—but the dam broke below her gentle caress and he felt himself crash into the warmth of her embrace. “Shh,” she lulled, “You’ll be alright,” she said.

 

They stood rocking side to side for a while as Lance’s sobs echoed through the studio and bounced of the mirrors around.

“I’m sorry,” he hickuped after a moment. He pulled away and started wiping his nose with the sleeve of his shirt, but Therese stopped him with a gentle swat and a scowl of _‘That’s not very proper!’._ From the pocked of her jeans she pulled out a pack of tissues and—instead of giving one to him—started wiping his snotty nose for him. He felt strangely touched.

“If you like him that much what in heaven’s name are you waiting for?” she asked.

Lance couldn’t help but agree. He was tired of thrown lipsticks and chained feet. A ballerina should be light in her step, delicate in her moves, strong in her flow and hold. So why, pray tell, was he slumbering around like a starved corpse in shackles and chains?

 

He couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ hide himself any longer.

 

 

-

 

 

His parents found him only minutes later, huddled close to Theresa on the steps outside the studio. She told him about her wife, and about how happy they were. And about her parents, and how they never really understood, but how they tried, and how that was all that mattered.

“They weren’t understanding, but they were accepting, and sometimes that’s all you need to move on.” She said.

So, when his parents finally found him with tears in their eyes, when they scooped him off the ground and squeezed the life out of him, when they begged and pleaded for him to never do such a thing again—he found within himself the courage to speak.

 

That day he came out to his parents, and that same day he tore off his shackles.

 

They weren’t understanding, but they tried to accept him, and it wasn’t ideal, but it was a start. He could work with that.

 

 

 

-

 

 

That morning, when the sun warmed the pavement to burning degrees, and the birds sung their throats dry, he rushed out of the car. The girls all stood huddled in a ring by the studio as always, chatting and gossiping. He made to run past them despite their calls for him, but one voice made him stop.

“Go get him, loverboy!” Pidge yelled to him, fist high in the air. He smiled and resumed his sprint.

Straight across the road, past the many parked bikes, past the first ramp and straight into the arms of the most startled skater he’d ever seen. Before he could so much as blink Lance had crashed their lips together, right there in the middle of the park for the world to see. On Keith’s sun-chapped lips he left the trail of a bright red, and as cheers erupted around them Lance grinned brightly at him—lipstick smeared. He could taste it on his teeth but didn’t really care.

The boys pushed and shoved at Keith, all shouting variations of _‘Get you man, Keith’_ and _‘Tap that ass!’_

But to them, to the two boys still a breath away, nothing mattered but the other.

“I’m not giving you my last name because I’m taking yours,” he whispered among the shouting, “And I’ll make damn sure to give it the best damn connotation you could have ever asked for.” He said.

 

And, below the scorching sun of August, he kissed him again.

 

Unchained.

 

 

-

 

 

 _Broken by the love,_  
_This hurt divides itself._  
_Decided that kissing you is bad for my health._  
  
_So I'm gonna ride,_  
_I'm going the other way._  
_I would've told you why,_  
_If there was any space for me_  
_To say,_  
  
_Oh, don't you see it now?_  
_I'm staying for a little while._  
_Oh, don't you see it now?_

  
_I'm staying for a little while._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who left a comment or kudos, I love you all!
> 
> If anyone is interested in me continuing this in a part 2 I’d love to know! Cheers!


End file.
